He used to drive a hog.
Remember? That bad ass
mother fucker would pull up
to my house: black leather
muscled tattoos all those
horses between his legs.
I still get wet between mine
thinking about Tragedy
back then: his low rumble
dark engine; who needs a
helmet when you’re running
Mescal ninety-six proof;
cheap blow and dirt weed;
taunting the law at a hundred
miles per hour. Electricity’s
been snuffed from night
since they sent him up
for two to five, me to dry out
on the coast.
I came back
to town last week looking
for Tragedy and a little trouble
and saw him on Central in a
new navy Olds, car seat
in the back, waiting patiently
for the light. I revved my
engine to raise my pulse
and burned a little rubber
at the green. He never even
looked, but puttered west
into the sun. I raced toward
night and a new tattoo: mark
that poor boy’s passing.
About the AuthorSharon Preiss lives in Tucson, AZ where she teaches poetry at the University of Arizona and writes a culture column for The Tucson Poet. Her poems have appeared in Pif Magazine, Massachusetts Review, BOOGLit, South Ash Press, and others. She's an MFA graduate of Bennington College where she teaches her class Rock&Roll and Poetry for their summer July Program.
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